


Such A Good Boy

by JustinTimberlake



Category: Football RPF, Men's Football RPF
Genre: Exhibitionism, I'm Sorry, M/M, Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustinTimberlake/pseuds/JustinTimberlake
Summary: Harry’s always had a thing for the idea of Dele being publicly humiliated. Dele’s pretty certain that Harry only liked the idea so much after Dele had brought it up in the first place. And he knows that he deserves it. Knows that he's been a brat. Right now, though, this feels irrelevant. All that Dele can think of now is how incredibly unfair it is that he has to suffer any sort of consequences for his actions.





	Such A Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dierdele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dierdele/gifts).



> Big thanks to Shelby for going over maybe a thousand different various sex scenes between these two and having to go and make her dinner for long enough for me to write this! You're my inspiration.
> 
> Hope it's okay with everyone that the Harry/Dele tag is about to get a lot less cute x

Dele is being tortured. Like, actual physical torture. He’s trying to sit still and breathe, and answer the goddamn questions about the match like it’s perfectly natural, while he’s sat here trying his best not to scream. It’s not even just physical torture, but psychological too - the fear of not knowing when it’s going to start, when it’s going to stop, how hard and fast it’s going to be. It doesn’t help that Harry keeps swerving all the questions, throwing them to Dele with a smirk, forcing him to answer, before reaching into his pocket idly and making Dele stop nervously mid-answer, wondering whether it was going to happen.

Harry is having far too much fun with this, Dele can tell. He knows that Harry has always wanted to do something like this to him. He’s always had a thing for the idea of Dele being publicly humiliated. To be fair to Harry though, he’s pretty certain that Harry only liked the idea so much after Dele had brought it up in the first place. Right now, though, this feels irrelevant. All that Dele can think about are Harry’s instructions. The strict instructions to not make a fool of himself, not to complain, and his fucking  _ safeword  _ if it all got too much. 

Harry had whispered these instructions to him while he was stretching him out in one of the random tunnels dotted around the new stadium, one they somehow never got spotted in. Dele liked to think it was a secret tunnel. Just for him and Harry. 

It was Dele’s fault anyway, Harry had grumbled, as he was lubing up the hot pink plug that Dele was about to become highly acquainted with in the next couple of hours. He’s the one that had been a brat. And this was fair, it was true, but it still felt so incredibly unfair whenever Dele had to suffer any sort of consequences for his actions.

Dele had gasped as Harry had slid it into him, already shamefully hard even though Harry was being highly perfunctory and routine about the whole procedure. Harry had made sure it was snugly inside of him before he stepped away from Dele, and started to walk away, leaving Dele spluttering and naked from the waist-down.

“Get dressed and be out in five minutes,” Harry had ordered over his shoulder. “Oh,” he had turned around to add, “And I should let you know…” He pulled out his phone. “It vibrates. But only when I press this button.” 

Dele tensed up, legs going a bit wobbly as Harry ran his thumb over his phone screen and turned the vibration up to 9. He looked at Harry pleadingly, and Harry turned it off. 

“So I’d be good if I were you.” 

And with that Harry had gone, Dele finding him only moments later looking unbearably smug at the press table.

And now, after Harry had been teasing him for half an hour, Dele feels like every single cell in his body is on edge. 

“Question for Dele Alli!” 

Dele doesn’t know how many times he has to correct everyone on his name, but he’s gotten used to it by now. He does know that it still winds Harry up no end, though, and he sees Harry bristle when the reporter says it again. Normally, he’d love this, but right now, he wants to keep Harry in the best mood possible. Wishes that people in the crowd wouldn’t make this even harder for him than it already is.

“So, Dele Alli - how did it feel today, to score that winning goal against Manchester City? Would you say that is up there in your top 10 moments of playing for Spurs?”

Dele actually ponders that one for a second, forgetting just briefly about his situation.

“Obviously, it felt amazing,” he begins, and he smiles a little bit. “You love the feeling of winning against any team like Manchester City, but when you’re actually on the scoresheet like that, it’s-”

The plug suddenly vibrates, and it takes him by surprise. He jolts forward and cuts off, closing his eyes briefly. When he opens them, he glances at Harry quickly, who is studiously not looking at him. 

“Sorry,” he continues, and he’s mortified by the fact that the damn thing won’t stop vibrating. He has to carefully consider his words. “Yeah, it’s - it’s a great feeling.”

Harry smirks, and Dele can almost hear Harry’s ‘ _I bet it is,_ ’ and he’s struck with a sudden burning hatred for Harry Edward Kane. This hatred only worsens when Harry reaches into his pocket again and suddenly the thing starts buzzing harder, and louder. Dele is panicked, wonders if anyone else can hear, and he shifts on his seat to try and muffle it a bit. As he does so, the damned thing rocks further up into him, and, well, fuck. He breathes out loud and slow through his nose, lips pressed tightly together so that he can’t let any regrettable noises come out.

The interviewer is still talking, and Dele desperately tries to zone back in. He’s unsure of exactly what Harry meant by  _ ‘don’t embarrass yourself,’  _ but he’s worried that it could extend to him not being able to answer a question because he was too far gone to listen to it. 

“- Stay with Spurs?”

Dele can only assume the question is either would he stay with Spurs or why would he, so he tries to cover all bases, quickly. 

“I love being here at Tottenham,” he sighs in relief as Harry switches the vibration off, and decides he’s safe to expand on it a bit more. “Where else could I play with world-class footballers like this legend next to me?”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him, then laughs along with the crowd amiably, waving him off. 

However, the look he shoots him right after makes something in Dele’s stomach drop like a stone. He shouldn’t have pushed his luck. He gulps, and braces himself for it to come back on. Of course, though, it doesn’t. Not yet. Not when he’s still expecting it.

Some woman in a Spurs top and a skirt asks Harry about how the players get along, if they’re truly friends or if there’s more rivalry than anyone would think, and Harry gives a brief answer about how they all get along really well, before he passes it to Dele.

“Del can tell you about how well we get on though. Del, tell her about the deal we made after the match.”

Dele widens his eyes. He can’t believe Harry has just asked him - no, surely, he can’t have asked him - to tell the literal world that he’s wearing a fucking buttplug. He dithers for an answer for a second, looking at Harry’s encouraging nod with his heart beating a million miles per minute. 

Harry takes pity on him, and glances down at his shirt meaningfully. 

Dele has never felt so relieved in his life when he finally figures out that Harry meant the  _ other  _ deal. 

“Oh, yeah - me and Harry made a bet that whoever gets more goals in the next three games, the other one has to wear his shirt all week. Wherever we go.” 

The crowd laughs again, a few people cooing a little, though most of them with a sarcastic tinge to it. 

Dele can’t quite believe his luck that Harry let him answer that with no further attack, but he’s not going to complain. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“So who do you think will win?” the lady asks Dele, and it’s at this point that Dele glances back at Harry, and just  _ knows  _ what’s coming. 

He braces himself and bites his lip again as he feels the plug come to life again, much harder than before. He pauses before he answers the question. Much too long of a pause. The journalist who asked him glances around awkwardly before looking at him again, clearly wondering why he was having to think about the question.

Dele tries to breathe, tries not to move even a muscle, too frightened that any minor movement will cause the stupid thing to move inside him, and make him want to scream.

“I think,” he pauses, and he doesn’t know why in the world he says what he says next, he knows that it’s only going to cause him trouble, but he just can’t help himself, “Harry’s going to love -” he coughs as the vibration gets a little too much, and he can’t believe he’s about to make it even worse for himself, “Love wearing my shirt for a week.”

Harry smirks. That’s exactly the answer he wanted, and Dele knows it. 

Harry reaches into his pocket again, and Dele almost tears his hair out when the vibrations become twice as intense. He feels like he might actually die. He looks around at the clock desperately, noting that there are only ten minutes left of the Q and A session and wondering helplessly if he can last that long. 

He’s glad he picked “Southgate” as a safeword, considering how easily he could fit it into an answer. He could just turn around any conversation and make it about how great it is to play for England, and slip the manager’s name in that way. However, he realises that the fact he is thinking about his safeword already means that he is in trouble. Deep trouble.

Harry doesn’t even take mercy on him, keeping it buzzing along at this almost unbearable frequency. However, Harry does take the next question, and doesn’t direct it over to Dele for once. Dele can’t even bring himself to be grateful, can’t think of anything but the overwhelming need to grind down on the thing in his ass, the desperate urge to just spread his legs and let Harry come up behind him and slam into him in front of everyone. He shuts his eyes briefly, imagines it, and only barely keeps himself from moaning out loud, biting his lips again. Briefly, he wonders what the media think. They’ll probably report that he was sick. Maybe they’ll think that injury he got on the pitch was more serious than it looked. He’s fairly certain their first guess won’t be the truth. They’d have to be a pretty ballsy reporter to suggest that two young famous male stars are publically fucking around with each other like that. That or a fangirl. 

Harry looks over at him, and assesses him as he answers whatever stupid question has just been asked, and Dele desperately tries to listen to his answer, just knowing beyond a doubt that Harry is about to give him one final test.

“For me, I think my favourite moment of this year was getting to the semis in the World Cup. The entire World Cup, really, is a highlight. And the manager is incredible, isn’t he, Del?”

Dele shoots him a grateful smile, knowing that Harry is offering him an out. He also knows, though, that while Harry certainly won’t mind if he uses the safeword, and will still get him off after and treat him just as nicely, he knows that Harry will reward him  _ so _ sweetly if he manages to hold off. Dele, as always, is so determined to be good, and he thinks he can probably do it. Just about.

“Yeah, the manager is great,” he carefully avoids saying Gareth’s name, “And I’d agree. The World Cup was amazing.”

Harry smiles at him, and Dele can almost hear him thinking ‘ _ good boy _ ,’ as he messes with the intensity settings, high to low, off to on, changing the intensity so randomly that Dele literally can’t think about anything in the world other than not making a sound, biting his fist so hard that he knows it’s going to bleed. 

He actually thinks he might come. 

He wonders if he will be obvious about it.

He wonders if everyone will notice.

He shuts his eyes for longer this time, trying to block out the rest of the room, his thoughts on a singular track of  _ don’t come don’t come don’tcomedon’tc-  _ before he hears a smattering of claps and a voice saying loudly, “Ok, time’s up!”

He looks up, can’t believe it’s all over, and sees Harry thanking the crowd and starting to walk out of the room, glancing back to Dele to see if he’s following. Dele stands up on shaky legs, almost falls over, and looks down at his pants to see he’s got a very unmistakeable bulge at the front of them. 

He squeaks a quick “thanks!” and hurries after Harry, all too aware that he’s walking like he’s pissed himself. He hopes beyond hope that everyone just thinks he’s sprained his ankle or something. He can’t let himself believe anything else.

He can’t believe he’s managing to even walk, not when Harry still won’t turn the fucking thing off, not when Harry grabs his wrist with a faux-worried look, asking Dele if everything’s okay before turning to Pochettino and telling him they’re gonna go get Dele something to eat, Poch giving Harry a kind look and telling him “very good!” Not when he feels like he would come in his pants the second literally anything were to even brush against his dick.

Harry drags Dele into the elevator by his wrist, and Dele wants to cry when the door finally shuts and Harry turns around and gropes his dick roughly, slamming him against the wall and kissing him deeply.

“Fuck, Del,” he whispers in his ear, “You’re such a good boy, did you know that?”

Dele whimpers, and bucks his hips into Harry’s hand.

“Harry I’m gonna fucking come, I’m gonna come right now, I can’t help it I’m gonna -”

Harry turns up the intensity to its highest level, gropes Dele’s dick with purpose, and looks him in the eyes.

“Come.”

Dele can’t help but obey, spasming against the wall and hitting Harry’s chest, letting out a strangled wail. 

Harry just watches him, eyes black, and Dele can’t think about anything else except how fucking hot that is, even as he goes boneless against the wall, barely able to hold himself up.

The lift reaches their floor, the door opening with a cheerful “ding!” and Dele can’t even move.

Harry takes pity on him, and puts his arm around Dele’s waist, leading him out into the hall, squeezing his side affectionately, and after looking up and down the hall furtively, gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Such a good boy,” Harry whispers again, and Dele smiles. 

Yes, he is. 

 


End file.
